Change And The Future

Hello, who are you? I wish to know your story. I see poetry blogs like these, I see them in their void; posting tagless, just screaming out, and I grow so curious. If you’re interested in giving an autobiography to a stranger, just say and I will dm you. My account is anonymous pretty much too.

yall is this some kind of scam or something

I Fear

I fear

that I am not perfect.

I am not attractive

and I am not well.

I fear

that any effort I make

is doomed to be wasted

like the other efforts I've made.

I fear

that if I change myself

I will no longer be myself

a conformity gained, a uniqueless lost.

I fear

that if I force myself to change

I will force myself through life

and not have enjoyed any of it at all.

I fear

that if I am just "another person"

then I will have lost all chances

of recieving your love.

I fear

that if I help others

naively, kindly, and oh so optimistically

that I will only be disadvantaging myself.

And yet, I help.

I encourage, I uplift, I support.

No matter how naive I may seem

I continue to serve the good of others.

So maybe, this time

This time I can change, truly

for the better, for the best, to be a new me

To push through the fear while keeping me myself

I fear

that I will still not be deserving

of your love; of your kindness; of you

that my efforts will again be wasted

But I will try anyways.

Day and Night

The sun shines brightly

on a joyful new day.

Let us laugh and laugh

until our minds are jelly and paste.

No, I will not

"take it down a notch."

Not for you, for myself, or for anyone.

I am free as the sky.

I know, you know, we all know,

What happens to me when the dreary time comes.

The world falls apart, reality losing its lustre

as all returns to the correct muted gray and _____.

But who cares? Let's not let the spoilsport

ruin our fun. Live in the moment,

Die in the moment, be your authentic self -

For there is no future to look forwards to.

I am Night, the eternal slumber,

once again reminding you of outstanding debts.

Your soul is mine, as ruined as it is,

For even the most damaged of people have value.

I Am A Good Person

I am a Good Person.

I must not get angry.

I must not fight people.

I must not shout.

I must not be angry.

I must not be sad.

I must not talk about my paltry issues.

I must not talk about what I want.

I must not be inconsiderate.

I must not be insensitive.

I must not appear threatening.

I must not allow my face to be percieved.

I must not speak to people.

I must not draw the attention of others.

I must not be extraordinary.

I must not be unique.

I must not appear unhappy.

I must not appear different.

I must not see myself as unhappy.

I must not see myself as happy.

I must not seek freedom.

I must not prioritize myself.

I must not hestitate to help others at the cost of myself.

I must not unshackle myself from the chains of my own design.

I must not escape these chains which hold myself back from both Heaven and Hell alike.

I am a Good Person.

A Tree Falls

A tree falls in the forest.

Nobody is nearby. Nobody to hear.

Does it even make a sound?

A tree falls in the forest.

It will impact the ecosystem

even more than it impacts the ground.

A lighthouse stops its beacon.

A ship nearby is lost and weary.

It cannot see. It runs aground.

A man dies alone in his hut.

He was kind, he was friendly, he was good.

At his funeral, no friends of his could be found.

But one kind lady far away might remember.

He had helped her find her way, a long time ago.

And so his memory, perhaps, will be skyward bound

as the man who loved everybody but himself.

A Broken Vase

This vase is broken.

It is chipped, cracked, and damaged.

It is broken like a million other vases.

Yes, it is broken.

Hurt like a million others, indeed.

Each one uniquely hurt, each one uniquely changed.

This broken vase is worthless.

It is broken. It serves no purpose.

It would be better to throw it away.

No, it can heal.

And when it is healed, it will be unique.

It will be a simple vase no longer.

The broken vase will stay broken.

It will never be fixed to mint condition.

It must be thrown away.

Yes, the damage will stay.

But it will be fixed to be different.

It will be unique and special and beautiful.

This is a broken vase. We must throw it away.

I am beginning to believe that the vase is not the problem here.

What It Means To Vote

Lies, lies, lies, all the way down.

Do you ever really stop and think about who you're even talking about?

Do you ever think who gains off cheating you? Who wants you to stay stupid?

Do you ever think about what it means to vote?

You are deciding the fate of a society. You choose feast or famine.

So why, really, do you choose the man who has lied to you time and time again?

Why do you want the man who has shot you and left you for dead?

What the actual fuck is going on inside your head?

Do words even matter to you anymore? Do kindness and empathy mean nothing?

Are you just another sock-puppet of that moneybag in a suit?

Do you not see the bigger picture? The bots, the trolls, the media diversions?

Do you ever even think about what your vote really means?

A rapist, a felon, impeached twice, started an insurgency.

Do you even hear yourself? Do you even look at the man you're touting?

Black guy, have you seen the racism he perpetuates? Woman, have you seen the sexism he himself partakes in? Immigrants, have you seen what he wants to do to you?

Do any of you - any of you - really think about what it means to vote for this man?

Overachieving

Here's the test I scored well on.

Here's the competition I won an award in.

Is it enough for you? Will I be allowed happiness?

Can I talk to human beings again and pretend I am one of them?

The past year, no, two years, no, five, no -

The past over-a-decade has been nothing but more

so much more that whenever someone says "burnout is bad!"

I think inside, "I lived it; I breathed it; I became it; sounds like you just have a skill issue."

And I'm a terrible person for thinking that. If it hurt for me, it'll hurt for them.

But god damn if I have something else I'm proud of taken away from me again.

I come back with a 95. You ask, "why isn't it 96? 97? 100?" Or maybe you don't care. Just see that it's an 'A' and forget it by tomorrow.

I come back saying I did well. You ask, "and how exactly? What did you do? What did everyone else think?"

And I tell you because I'm a good child and I'm still that naive pushover who thinks the world is good and you are still family

And inside I pack up another bottle of anger and disappointment of various kinds of both you and myself.

And in the end I've had enough. You taught me how to shorten my fuse, and I've tried to make it last a little longer but you burn so hot.

I tell you to shut up and wait for the results. And inside I think but don't say: "You fucking asshole. Piece of shit that can't bother to be proud of their own child for fucking once."

So tired of your shit. So tired of being a good person to you because you're just an ass and you can't change that.

So tired of pushing forwards all the time. So tired of being pushed forwards all the time. Can't do it myself like a real human being.

So tired of being this mess who can't pull themselves together like a normal person. So tired of procrastinating and crying and sitting here wallowing in the exact same cesspool of angst.

So tired of doing everything wrong and right and being the perfect idiot child and pushing forwards and wading back and the whole fucking thing.

I'm just so, so fucking tired.

Forever That Child At Age Five

Do you ever wonder if people can really change beyond their formative years?

"Sure they can. Maybe not the whole, but a solid chunk? Yeah."

Well, I suppose that's true to some extent.

A man can live the first 20 years of his life in a constant state of movement.

Studying, working, doing chores, being what he needs to be in order to survive a harsh environment.

Then he can live the next 20 years in a carefree state of relaxation,

and live the last 50 as the hardworking man once more to provide for his family.

Or at least, that's the story of my father.

But I fear I am still going to be that same child I was, back when I was five, ten, fifteen.

I fear I am forever going to be under the shadow of that man,

that man who had two children without even realizing how fucked up his own childhood was.

I fear I will never become anything more, at my core, than that five year old child.

Sure, I suppose I'll change, superficially; maybe I'll know a bit more, fit into society a bit more, and so on.

But at heart I will still be that same, sad, scared little child,

a child who would do anything for a bit of affirmation and approval.

I fear that when I am thirty, or fifty, or eighty, or a hundred-twenty, or however the fuck long I live,

that I will still be no different from the child I was when I was five.

I fear that I am always going to be the same little boy who begs for just the slightest bit of love.

I fear that I am forever that child at age five.

God Will Weep

God will weep

for the souls of the damned

and the sins of the holy

when I shove my fist through his chest

God will weep

for the poor and suffering

and the mistakes of the greats

when I kick his corpse off the cliff

God will weep

for the sins he has committed

and the suffering of the good

when I shove my foot through his skull

God will weep

for the wrongs he has done to me

and the defects he made me with

when I throw his ashes into the wastewater collection plant

God will weep

because when I find his house

and break in the door

he fucking better cry.